Militia
by Rory O'Sullivan
Summary: Someone is gunning for Jim Gordon, and the Dynamic Duo race the clock, and eachother, to save him


Batman: Militia by Rory O'Sullivan 

Bruce Wayne scrawled his signature across the last page in a vast pile of paperwork that engulfed his desk from end to end. He sat back, and rubbed his stiff neck. The position of CEO had it's letdowns. He'd been working for almost twelve hours now. 

His watch beeped for his attention. He glanced down at it. It's face flashed 10:30 PM. Time for the night shift. 

Securing his office door, Bruce produced the cape and cowl from his briefcase. He donned them with practiced ease. tossing himself a glance in the nearby full-length mirror. 

He wondered, as he often did, whether it was the design of the costume or a subconscious change in demeanor that made his eyes harden, his lips flatten into a grim but neutral expression, when he became the Batman. 

Wayne Tower was the tallest building in Gotham City. Batman stepped out onto the window ledge, taking in a panorama of magnificent city lights that dotted shadow. The wind, always fierce at this altitude since it was uninhibited by other buildings, caught his cape and swept it up about him. 

Batman surveyed the cityscape with keen, trained eyes. Somewhere off to his right hand side, sirens began, and were met by a series of gunshots. No longer undecided as to which direction to patrol first, he plunged headfirst downward. Wind tore at him, and the rushing scenery threatened to overwhelm his senses. His gloved hand tucked into his utility belt, and withdrew a palm-sized grapple gun. He fired the powerful cable line toward the flagpole his mind had mapped. 

The rope went taught, and Batman was suddenly jerked upward. As soon as he'd reached the high point of his arc, he was ready with a second grapple gun, and simultaneously fired and retracted. 

*** 

Jim Gordon cursed his luck. He'd spent years as commissioner, behind a desk, hadn't walked a beat since he'd taken the promotion. Now, he decided to come out just once, to supervise a rookie on his first night. And trouble had followed. 

The rookie lay nearby, sporting a bullet wound and mumbling in semi-conscious stupor. Gordon clung to his service revolver like a lifeline, and huddled lower behind the police cruiser. Across the street were arranged at least a half-dozen thugs, heavily armed, and well coordinated. They were continually firing rounds into the cruiser, pinning Gordon down. 

He couldn't get to the radio. Couldn't call backup. He was on his own. For once, he wished--- 

And there it was. A bat-like form gliding over the rooftops. Gordon sighed, and pulled his revolver closer. Any minute now--- *** 

Batman touched down nearby, lightly, silently, unnoticed. He gathered his wits from the rush of aerial ropework. His mind processed the situation at breakneck speed. Six gunmen, spread along half a block, well-covered from head-on attack. He considered. First priority: get the cops clear. He nodded in agreement with himself, and darted out into the open. He could feel one gunman's gaze turn to him, then bullets tracking him and pounding the walls behind him. He hurdled the cruiser, and landed in a roll under a hail of lead. 

Gordon started at the sudden appearance of the Dark Knight, and Batman seemed taken aback as well, but only for a moment. His mouth turned down with newfound resolve. "Jim. I have to get you out---" 

Gordon waved him away, and pointed at the rookie. "Him first." 

Batman hesitated, but dutifully slung the officer across his back, and fired the grapple gun into the air. It latched on to something out of sight, and Batman ascended. Moments later, he dropped back down behind the cruiser, having deposited the officer on a rooftop. "Your turn." 

Gordon shifted, glancing up as he did so, and his eye caught a glimpse of a spherical object sailing through the air. "Grenade!" 

The commissioner was barely aware of Batman diving away as he threw himself over the police cruiser and started running. An explosion showered the street in debris, and the cruiser tipped up on one side and began to roll. 

Gordon was now the target of gunfire that was no longer random, but concentrated. He dropped to the pavement, oblivious to the inferno behind him. 

Batman came hurdling through the flame, sending a few batarangs pinwheeling to cover himself. He hit the ground on his shoulder, shifted onto his back, and braced the cruiser, which was tilted up on the driver's door, by planting his feet on the rooftop, yelling, "Jim! Go!" through gritted teeth. 

Gordon jumped to his feet and ran like hell. Through the snap, crackle, and pop of gunfire and flame he heard shrill sirens. A fire truck, flanked by squad cars, came careening into view. He began a desperate sprint toward them. 

He felt the bullet before one particular gunshot registered closer than the others. The bullet grazed his shoulder, spun him around to face his assailant. Somewhere in the background the cruiser exploded, and the burst of light silhouetted the shooter horribly for a brief second. Gordon transferred gun hands, and fired. The thug fell silently. 

The cavalry had arrived, and SWAT team members were swarming the area. Gordon sat on the curb, chest heaving, and closed his eyes to the scene. He paid little attention to the noise, to the shouts of police officers, recurring gunfire, to the flow of water from the fire hoses, until an ambulance ground to a halt before him. Paramedics unloaded to stretchers, and wheeled them with quiet urgency into the smoky haze about the area. 

Gordon watched with intense scrutiny, eyes watering from the harsh atmosphere. The first stretcher emerged, with the dead thug on it. As he was hoisted into the ambulance, someone ordered some subordinate to take another stretcher to the roof of 57 Oakland, a minor injury, semi-conscious. Gordon smiled. Sounded like the rookie was going to pull through. 

The second stretcher reached his field of view. On it lay the Caped Crusader, his costume singed. 

The paramedic rolled up to an officer who was obviously coordinating the operation, and relishing his authority. Gordon moved in his direction. 

"This one's got a few minor burns," the medic began. "He's badly bruised. Took a nasty rap on the head, out cold. We'll be treating for smoke inhalation---" 

"Yes, fine." The officer reached down, and began to tug on the lip of Batman's mask. 

Gordon shot forward and seized the man's wrist. "Leave it." 

"But sir---" 

"No. The mask stays. That's an order. I--- I owe him that much. And keep him under lock and key." 

"Bu--- Yes, sir." 

*** 

Black. Jet black. No, tinged with red. Now blurred. 

Batman's vision slowly came into focus. The heart monitor quickened. He sat upright with a jerk, head reeling with the onset of disorientation. 

Waking up. Wayne Manor? No. Scent... Hospital room. Why? 

His mind fought confusion. He was still in costume, cowl in place. The cape was detached, and hung neatly nearby. His head ached, his ribs were somewhat tender... 

Images came flooding back. The gunfight, the grenade, fire--- He remembered. Fighting back pain, he slid out of the hospital bed, and wrapped himself in his cape as he opened the window. 

"Wait." 

Jim Gordon stood just inside the door. 

Batman half-turned, difficult in his position crouched on the window sill. "I have to go." 

"I know. Thank you." Gordon extended a hand. 

Batman shook it briefly. "That incident... it wasn't an accident you were there. Professionals, quite an arsenal. You caught them?" 

"Just one. On a slab downstairs." 

Batman harrumphed. "Watch your back, Commissioner." He plunged backward off the sill, and reached out with the grapple gun, which spirited him away. 

*** 

Alfred Pennyworth stepped out of the bland but stately architecture of Wayne Manor, and down into the dank gloom of the Batcave. 

Alfred was rarely flustered, but now was one of those times. The master had been gone for forty-eight hours. Batman had disappeared for days at a time before, and Alfred always waited for the obituary to appear. The butler considered Bruce as much his son as anyone of his own flesh and blood could be. He'd raised him since the murder of Thomas and Martha Wayne. 

The familiar roar of a V-8 Twin Turbo engine filled the Cave, sending bats screeching from several directions. The Batmobile barreled into view, and burned into a one-eighty. The cockpit opened, and Batman stumbled out. 

He mumbled a greeting to Alfred, and pulled off his cowl. Avoiding the butler's questions, he made straight for the giant Cray computers in the corner. With all the bruises he was sporting, he padded computer chair was a hundred times more comfortable than the Batmobile cockpit. He allowed himself to slump slightly. 

"Jim Gordon's first night on the streets, and a professional firing squad is seen pulling off a low-key robbery. Coincidence?" 

Alfred rubbed his mustache in thought. "I must say, that certainly is suspicious, sir." 

"You bet it is, Alfie." The voice was young, resonant. Alfred turned. "Master Tim!" 

Robin strode into the light. "So we work out who's got a grudge against the commish, and book 'em?" 

"I book 'em. These are professionals. Organized. Serious firepower and the brains to use it. Good enough to drop me." He turned away from Robin. 

Robin began to protest. Then he realized that Batman wasn't staring into space. He was staring at the plaque across the Cave. The memorial to Jason Todd. To the second Robin. He shut his mouth. 

Batman leapt down from the computer. "There've been a lot of releases from Blackgate Prison lately. I'll start there." He slid into the Batmobile, and roared out of the Cave. 

Robin sprinted down the Batmobile runway, to where a motorcycle sat off to the side. "Fine. I won't go after these guys." He mounted the bike. "'Course, if I happen to come across them on my patrol, by accident, what can I do? Engage Batmobile homing device." 

The computer display on the bike lit, with a red, flashing bat signal signifying the Batmobile. 

*** 

Batman left the Batmobile parked on the wooded precipice that overlooked Gotham Harbor. Blackgate was an island in the mouth of the harbor, so he had to ready his ominous-looking hang glider. He strapped it across his back and plunged into the air. 

*** 

The warden's office was silent, and black. Batman stealthily severed the alarm cords, and jimmied the window open. He glanced around, and his eyes centered on the filing cabinet. 

One thing the rushing waves couldn't mute was the approaching footfall. Batman sank back into the shadows. A moment later, the lights flipped on. The warden entered the room. 

He was a short, balding man, physically unremarkable. But, Batman knew, cold and calculating. Dangerous if rubbed the wrong way. 

The warden circumnavigated his desk. Batman straightened and approached him. 

The warden glanced up, and his eyes went wide. "Buh--- Batman!" He struck out for the panic button beneath his desk. Nothing happened. 

"You've released at least ten men in the last week. Why?" 

The warden sighed. "Some sort of technicality handed down from the DA." 

"All of them?" 

"They're all former members of the Wardogs. Y'know, that gang that that weirdo the Gen'ral put together, couple years back?" 

"I remember." 

"Course you do. You ran him in. Anyhoo, all these guys walked 'cause the DA found some sorta technicality, like I said. Uh, legal loophole or something." 

Batman turned away in thought. He'd been investigating possible ties between the District Attorney and the Penguin for months, but hadn't found anything substantial. Now--- 

The Dark Knight nodded curtly, and dove through the window. 

The warden murmured a "You're welcome," at the retreating form. 

*** 

More political corruption. If Batman hadn't been holding his head perfectly still, so as not to disrupt the wind current carrying him safely to the precipice, he would have shaken it in disgust. DA Seth Voder had already been investigated on charges that his campaign had been 'helped along' by the Penguin, and come up clean. Still, Batman had his suspicions, and this incident only served to rouse them. 

He touched down, keyed in the Batmobile access code, and sped away. Seconds later, unseen, Robin's motorcycle cleaved the bushes and followed at a respectful pace. 

*** 

The Batmobile navigated the pencil-thin back alleys of the city. Driving as though in some zombie-like trance, Batman brooded. How to connect Voder to Penguin? 

He considered. Voder usually spent his nights at the Ice Cube, the Penguin's uptown club. If he could catch the two of them making small talk, maybe Voder would crack. 

The Batmobile careened around a corner in the direction of the Ice Cube, barely managing to keep within the boundaries of the lane. 

As he threaded his way through traffic, the dash-mounted vid-phone chirped for his attention. 

"Go ahead, Alfred," he murmured. 

The butler's image blinked onto the monitor. "I thought you should know, sir, there's been an accident in the Heights. A paddy wagon's been written off---" 

"Thank you, Alfred. I'll look into it." 

Batman spun the wheel, guiding the car through a sparsely crowded junction. 

*** 

"I thought you should be informed, sir." 

"Thanks, Alfie." 

Robin flipped off the bike radio. He adjusted the visor before his face and leaned into a harsh turn. Examining the playback from the homing monitor, he realized that Batman was making for the accident, and projected that his course would've taken him to the Ice Cube if he'd stayed on it. 

Looks like Bruce made the connection, he thought. I'll hafta stand in for him. 

*** 

Jim Gordon, looking and feeling tired and worn out, forced one foot in front of another, making his way slowly to the door of his suburban home. Trying to take his mind off recent events, he noticed the peeling paint, and made a mental note to restore it some day. 

Gordon produced his keys, and fumbled at the door. He realized it was already open, and his shrewd, trained mind was suddenly clear and alert. He shucked off his trench coat for freedom of movement, and slid through the door into the hallway, gently calling, "Sarah? Batman?" 

The florescent lighting he'd had installed in the kitchen projected a bulky, male shadow into the hall, no profile he was familiar with. He pulled his revolver, and dropped into a battle-ready crouch. After composing himself, and mapping out which way to dive should the punk in his kitchen be armed, he swung into the kitchen doorway. 

His gun hand wavered. 

There stood Headhunter. Dressed exactly the same as he had when he'd first met the commissioner, the hitman smiled his ingratiating, toothless grin, and hefted a .45. 

"Welcome home, Commissioner," he snarled. "Once your bat-buddy gets here, we can begin." *** 

Batman stood, and stepped away from the mangled corpse of a penguin. He stopped for a moment, and observed the paddy wagon rammed up against a great tree. 

The driver of the wagon, his arm in a makeshift sling, approached the Dark Knight. "Bird just bolted out in front o' me," he intoned. "Weird." 

Batman inclined his head. "The prisoners?" 

"Three of 'em. We got two. There's an APB out on the third." 

"Who?" 

"Punk named Headhunter. Hitman for the Morelli mob. The commish collared him awhile back." 

Batman's eyes widened, and he sprinted for the Batmobile. 

*** 

Gordon writhed on the kitchen's tile floor, trying in vein to break the bonds tying him to the leg of a table. 

As he struggled, he watched Headhunter pace up and down, gesturing insanely. 

"I never missed until you, Gordon!" He was raving now. "I had a perfect kill record until you! You and that flying rat ruined my career! Ruined my life!" 

As Headhunter checked that his .45 was fully loaded, the front door creaked open, and a feminine voice tentatively called, "Jim?" 

Gordon hoarsely cried out, "Run, Sarah!" but Headhunter was already in the hall, firing at the door. Sarah Essen threw herself to the floor, bullets tearing into the door frame behind her. She gathered herself, and darted out across the lawn, cursing herself for having given up her service pistol. 

Glancing over her shoulder, she saw Headhunter barrel out the front door after her. Who is this guy? she wondered, And what's his beef with Jim? 

Gordon himself had gained a burst of energy from seeing the maniac charging after his wife. Bracing his feet as best he could, he strained his shoulders until finally the bonds about his hands tore with a satisfying snap. Stumbling to his feet, weariness washed away by adrenaline, he snatched up his revolver and ran for the door, barely noticing as his shoulder brushed the splintered door frame. 

The street was deserted, nearing the wee hours of the morning as it was. Sarah's eyes probed shadow and light alike, searching for anything that could be used as a hiding place. Finally, she spotted a decrepit-looking subway station entrance, and bee-lined for it. 

Gordon had reached the sidewalk now, and as his legs churned up pavement, he cursed. No, Sarah, not the subway! 

*** 

Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot held an air of lethal confidence, despite his demeaning size. He could walk the seediest back alleys of Gotham unharmed, for no one in their right minds would cross the Penguin. He smirked, and tucked his umbrella under his arm, as the chauffeur hurried to open his door. 

Suddenly, a flash of crimson was atop the limousine. A green-clad fist lashed out, instantly felling the chauffeur. 

Penguin wobbled as fast as he could back toward the doors of the Ice Cube. He'd forgotten the handful of people who would mess with the Penguin. 

The vigilantes. 

Robin sprang from his perch atop the limo, somersaulted, and landed neatly before the crime lord, hands on his hips. "Cobblepot." 

Seething with defiance, the Penguin raised his umbrella, and a razor blade thrust from the end. "It's Penguin, dolt! Don't forget it!" 

Robin sidestepped the blade, guided it downward with a karate chop, and kneed the bird-like man in the stomach, sinking him to his knees. 

As the Penguin gasped for breath, Robin kneeled before him. "You're getting rusty, Oswald. Why don't you just admit you were behind the assassination attempt on Jim Gordon, and I'll take you back to a nice cozy cell to practice." 

The Boy Wonder was suddenly aware of a firm hand on his shoulder, and two hulking, suited forms behind him. 

"Rocko," the Penguin said from his position at the boy's feet, "take the young punk out back and teach him some manners." 

*** 

The Batmobile screeched to a halt before the Gordon house, fishtailing slightly. Before the sound of the engine had died, Batman was out of the car and running toward the entrance. 

Fear filled him as soon as he reached the shattered remnants of the door. It was evident that his friend was in trouble. 

After a cursory examination of the kitchen, which showed textbook signs of struggle, he returned to the door. He had just removed the second of two .45 slugs from the wood, when his cowl radio crackled for attention. 

"All units! All units!" cried the dispatcher, a cliched tinge of urgency in her voice, "Gunfire reported in Bosstown Station! Suspect heading east into Gotham on C-Line. Request Transit Authority shut down east C-Line until---" 

"Roger, Control here, C-Line shut down. Repeat---" 

Batman whirled, eyes wide, taking in the Bosstown Station entrance only a half-block away. He started into a full-speed run. 

*** Sarah Essen couldn't run anymore. When the subway train she'd boarded had stopped. she'd thought her life was over for sure. But, thinking quickly, she'd managed to get out onto the track, and into a storm drain adjoining the tunnel. But now--- She'd followed a sewer tunnel for about a city block, and now stood at the edge of a great concrete precipice. Four sewer tunnels converged here from opposite directions, and released their respective loads into the pool of indescribable muck easily fifteen meters below. 

Sarah gulped, staring down her misfortune like an old movie serial gunfighter. Then, she felt cold steel press against the back of her head, and for the first time the irony struck her. 

Headhunter. 

He smiled his menacing smile, and tightened his hold on the trigger. "You ruined my plans for tonight, Mrs. Gordon," he murmured. "I'm one to hold grudges." 

A shot rang out. 

Sarah Essen dropped to her knees, then blinked in disbelief. 

There, framed in the tunnel entrance, just behind Headhunter, who was holding his bleeding wrist, stood Jim Gordon, revolver smoking. 

*** 

Batman hurtled the subway platform rail. He hit the track without breaking stride, and continued into the tunnel. 

Intensity had gripped him now, and it's hold was tightening. Up ahead, the subway train itself stood stoic. A far cry from the bullet-like vessel which had cruised past him in his younger years, the train was actually quite ugly. It took him a moment to pry open the rear exit, and inside he found cowering and huddling commuters, most whimpering in fear. 

After determining that Headhunter wasn't aboard, Batman began searching the tunnel. In moments, he'd come across a storm drain hanging open. He stooped to examine the mud at the lip of the drain. Batman knew Jim Gordon's footprint well, but here Gordon's print was more recent than Headhunter's. So the question now was, who the hunter and who the prey? 

*** 

"Where the hell did you come from?" 

Headhunter, holding his gun hand tentatively to his chest, balanced the .45 in his left. 

"Your worst nightmare, Scumball," snarled Gordon. "Now back away from my wife and I won't have to shoot you." 

Headhunter grinned. "This situation needs a conflict of interest, doncha think?" With that, he dove forward, and shouldered Sarah over the edge. 

Gordon sprang to the edge of the precipice, watched in desperation as Sarah tumbled downward. 

Chuckling, Headhunter advanced on Gordon. Then his vision was sparkling, and his mind registered pain. 

Retracting his punch, Batman looked to Gordon, a question on his lips. 

The commissioner gasped, "Sarah! She fell!" 

Batman nodded an acknowledgment, and swan-dived off the precipice into mid air. 

Contact with the 'water' revived him, even as he did his best to keep it from his mouth. Deeper in the murky depths, he sighted Sarah. He swam toward her, mentally cursing the hindering cape, and gathered her into his arms. His motions were slowed by muck, but he managed to produce his grapple gun and fire it roofward. 

Once the grapple was secured to an overhead pipe, Batman channeled all his energy into striking the retract switch, and allowed the cable to take the strain of Sarah's weight. 

The precipice came into view as they rose, then a winded Jim Gordon, sitting with his head in his hand. No Headhunter. 

After depositing Sarah on stable ground, and allowing the Gordons their reunion, Batman darted into the sewer tunnel, and noticed the assassin stumbling along the track. 

Batman began to sprint, carefully avoiding the electric rails, when a burst of static consumed his cowl radio. "Control, this is SWAT One. C-Line train is clear. Start 'er up." 

Batman stopped dead. Behind him came the grating noise and swoosh of the subway train moving off. Then he was caught in the glare of the single headlight. In one fluid motion, he threw himself from the track to the wall of the tunnel, pressing himself into it as best he could. The train whipped by, shearing his cape from his shoulders. 

As the train passed, Batman managed to ease his head around and watch as it bore down on Headhunter. 

He looked away at the last second, gritted his teeth, and brooded over the loss of life. 

Gordon was beside him then, sweating profusely. "I got here as fast as I--- Where's---?" 

Batman turned and began the long walk back to the station. "He's dead, Jim." 

*** 

The Ice Cube was closed, awaiting it's noon-hour opening, but one booth was already occupied. 

The Penguin sat in the dim light, balancing a martini in one hand. He systematically dealt himself poker hand after poker hand as he listened to the echoing sounds of his henchmen pummeling the Boy Wonder. 

Suddenly, there came a yelp of pain, not from Robin, he realized, but from Rocko. 

Penguin scrambled out of the booth and swung the club's back door open. The scene that greeted him made his blood run cold. 

His two henchmen lay at opposite ends of the alley, unconscious and bound hand and foot. As the little man approached, he came across a hastily scribbled note tacked to the wall: 

Cobblepot; 

Thanks for the hospitality. 

I'll be back--- with company 

---your friendly neighborhood 

Boy Wonder 

Penguin crushed the note in his hand, and kicked a piece of nearby litter, muttering, "This isn't over." 

*** 

The last of the patrons of the Ice Cube drifted out into the early morning sunlight, and the doors shut. 

The Penguin stormed through his casino, waving at his henchmen to assemble. 

"All right, ladies and gents," he cried, his voice carrying it's habitual edge, "I've just gotten word. The Wardogs have failed. The Headhunter failed. We have to get Gordon out of the way now, so we can get our candidate of commissioner into the office for the Christmas rush." He seized the sides of the roulette wheel, and adopted an air of preaching from the pulpit. "Put the word out: Anyone who pegs Jim Gordon gets himself set for life. I want a hitman on every corner! Go! We have to move on this one, the bat's on our tail." 

"You're damn right I am." 

A dark silhouette plummeted from the skylight. It landed atop a row of slot machines, and a cape was thrown back, revealing the prominent trademark bat signal. 

Simultaneously, a dozen guns in the room were drawn and cocked. 

Batman sprang into the air, somersaulted, and bounced from a blackjack table into the midst of the lethal congregation. Before anyone could even think of reacting, the Masked Manhunter had seized the Penguin, and held him aloft as a shield. 

Each of the Penguin's guards were dumbstruck. Some flashed back to childhood images of vampires and boogeymen, some to urban legends and myths of the supernaturality of the figure before them. None could keep their weapons at bear. 

Batman held the Penguin taught, stifling a strange gurgling sound. He growled at the assembly. "James Gordon is a personal friend of mine," he started. He tightened his hold on the Penguin's neck, causing everyone in the room to wince. "I've been known to exact vengeance. Consider yourselves warned." 

The Dark Knight thrust the Penguin forward, scattering poker chips. He swan-dived over the others, and, wrapping himself in his cape, shouldered through the door. 

And disappeared. 

*** 

"So you think the heat's off Gordon?" 

Batman tugged off his cowl, and the corners of his mouth turned down. "No." 

Robin shrugged. "So what d'we do now?" 

Batman sighed, a great, shuddering sigh, partly exhaustion, and partly frustration. "What can we do? There's too much crime out there, Tim. I can't watch Gordon's back twenty-four seven." 

Robin leaned on the Batcave computer console. "Bruce, you know the Penguin won't let up! There's going to be a hit, and soon!" 

Batman closed his eyes. "What do you expect me to do? Fourteen homicides in the last thirty-six hours, all begging for attention. I can't drop everything to play guardian angel to a policeman easily capable of handling things." 

"I don't believe this!" Robin cried. "You can't hang him out to dry!" 

"This isn't getting us anywhere," Batman snapped. Then his tone softened. "I have my reasons, Tim. Let's leave it at that." 

Robin mumbled something beneath his breath, causing Batman to stop in his tracks. "You're coming dangerously close to insubordination, kid." 

"So sue me." Robin stood, and bee-lined for the offshoot tunnel that lead back to his home. If Bruce wasn't going to step in, he was. 

*** 

Jim Gordon stepped into the pouring rain, and cursed. 

Loudly and emphatically. 

It felt great. 

As he made his way up the street, he reflected on the past few days, the fire and carnage, the living hell Headhunter had put him through. He thanked God it was over. 

And the shots started. 

The commuter before him flinched, as though reacting solely to the sharp crack that resonated through the air, and fell forward. 

Gordon's training took hold, computing the angle and distance of the shot. He hurled himself into a department store doorway, and sank against the frame. 

I'm in the wrong business, he thought morosely. 

*** 

Robin scowled into the wind, as he reached the peak of Wayne Tower. Bruce was like a father to him, but sometimes he could be so stubborn. Robin respected Batman's methods, but sometimes the boy felt his mentor should prioritize less selflessly. 

He sighed, and ran a hand through his soaking hair. 

The sniper shot echoed through the city's concrete chasms, igniting his adrenaline. 

Robin dove forward. He rebounded from a high-level ledge, vaulting into a series of well-orchestrated somersaults. 

Eventually, he touched down on a rooftop barely two blocks from the shooting. Every few moments, a shot rang out. Robin produced a pair of mini-binoculars, and swept them about in a semi-circle. 

The infrared binocular scope picked up on a figure atop a rundown brownstone, aiming a high-caliber rifle into the street. 

Robin instinctively crouched low, and whispered into the microphone fixed to his collar. 

"Batman? Batman, come in." 

Nothing. 

"Bruce? One of Penguin's shooters is taking a crack at Gordon. East fifty-seventh. How do you want me to play things?" 

"I don't," the gruff voice suddenly returned. "Sit tight. I'll be there soon." 

Robin started. "I can't, Bruce. There's... somebody else on the scene now. This could get ugly. I gotta get in there." 

*** 

Charlie Ross slammed another cartridge into his rifle. The thug grimaced. Penguin had told him the old man would be a two-shot max. He was turning into a very difficult hit. 

Penguin had been livid once Batman had disappeared from the Ice Cube. And, in a moment of weakness, Ross had decided his fear of Cobblepot was greater than that of the Dark Knight. 

"Tell you what; You put down the rifle, and I'll only have to break one of your arms." 

Ross whirled, and a purple-and-Kevlar clad boot caught the rifle and flipped it over the roof's edge. 

The vigilante known as Huntress stood over him, leveling her crossbow. 

Ross panicked, and went for his ankle holster. He pulled a small .38, and opened fire. 

Huntress took the first shot to her armored midsection. She launched herself into the air and over the hitman, grasping for purchase on the lip of the roof. But the roof was slick with rain water, and she suddenly found herself plummeting earthward. 

Twisting in the air, she lashed a cable line to a crossbow arrow, and fired blindly. 

The arrow went wide. 

Huntress cursed, and braced herself for impact. 

The cable line went taught in her hands, and she choked out a gasp of relief. 

A story above her, straddling a gargoyle, Robin had both arms coiled about the grapple cable, and was visibly straining to keep her from falling. 

*** 

Charlie Ross crawled to the edge of the roof, and gazed over. His first thought was the fate that awaited him if he returned to the Penguin a failure. 

Sure enough, Gordon was still in the doorway. He could still... 

He considered. A distance shot, with an inaccurate weapon... 

Ah, the hell with it. 

Ross sighted along the barrel, and pulled back the hammer. *** 

Huntress, awkwardly levering herself up the rope, caught sight of the would-be assassin, and motioned to Robin. 

Robin caught the gesture, and put all his strength into swinging the rope. 

Laboriously, Huntress started into a pendulum swing, that in mere moments had carried her back to the roof. Dismounting, and still disoriented from having regained her footing, she managed to fire off half a dozen razor-sharp shrukien. 

The shrukien pinwheeled forward, embedding themselves in the gun barrel. Ross cried in pain, and let it fall out of sight. Scrambling to his feet, anguish clenching his throat, Ross could find no other suitable action than to run. But the lack of traction on the rainswept roof deterred him, and he simply charged the vigilante. 

Huntress gracefully swept a knee up, sending the hitman's head lolling back as he sank to his knees. 

Robin rolled onto the roof. "Nice work, Helena." 

"I know," she retorted. "So," she said, crooking a thumb at the fallen assassin, "what's this perp's story?" 

Robin bent to rifle through the thug's jacket pockets. "Charles Ross, Small-claims enforcer for the Penguin. Out of his league." 

Huntress sat down lightly beside him. "What's he doing here? Socializing?" 

Robin snickered. "The Penguin put out a major contract on Jim Gordon." 

"Wow. Heavy. So where's your pointy-eared slavedriver?" 

"Roger Rabbit?" 

"Batman." 

"Ah. More important things to do once he found out you were here. Go figure." 

"So basically what you're telling me is that we're on our own on this one." 

"Right." Robin straightened. "So what nex---" 

But Huntress was already bounding into the air. 

*** 

The Penguin sat alone in his office, gazing at a muted television with disinterest. Word had just come in. Charlie had missed. Horribly and irrevocably. 

He mentally sighed. If you want something done right... He shuffled off to a display case, from which he extracted an umbrella. He noted that he hadn't used this particular model in years. At the touch of a button, the umbrella point spawned rotor blades. Penguin allowed the gear-operated skylight to cycle open, and then held his umbrella aloft, and ascended. 

The city was pitch dark, save the bat signal, a beacon of testimony to the city's almost cult following of the Darknight Detective. That was where Gordon would be. 

*** 

Gordon pulled up the collar of his trench coat, and lit a third cigarette. He paced, unable to help himself, watching as the bat signal strafed the cloud-strewn skyline. 

Finally, a mechanical whir filled the air. Gordon turned to watch the Penguin drip to the roof of the GCPD Headquarters building. 

Gordon doused the cigarette, and adopted a sour expression. "It this is about your 'charity fund'..." 

"No, no!" Penguin ambled toward him. "Please, Commissioner. I have another proposal, sir." He drew a compact Colt .45. "Die." 

"Not tonight, Oswald." 

Penguin whirled. The Boy Wonder stepped into the open, hands on his hip. "Not tonight." 

The crime lord lowered his weapon. "And why not?" 

Huntress dropped into view. "Because we said so." 

Having lost his approachable, DeVito-like charm, the Penguin raised the .45 and fired. 

While the Huntress found cover in the stairwell, Robin made for Gordon, dragging the commissioner out of the line of fire. But one of Cobblepot's erratic shots grazed the young vigilante's shoulder, and he fell against his protectee. 

Unbalanced, Jim Gordon flailed for a handhold, but lost the battle, and plunged over the rooftop edge. 

Robin, fumbling for a grapple line, watched the man fall in growing desperation. Then the world flashed and twisted around him. A moment later, he was on his back, and he realized the Penguin had clubbed him. 

With something hard. 

The Penguin smiled his ghastly smile, and raised his heli-umbrella, slowly pushing it toward the boy. 

The Huntress attempted a diving tackle from behind, but Penguin somehow managed to stand his ground, swinging the gun butt in his other hand, driving her clear of the fray. 

He returned his attention to the incapacitated Boy Wonder, drove the umbrella forward. 

A batarang ricocheted off the umbrella trunk, snapping it neatly in half. Like a bolt of lightning, Batman was between the two combatants. He delivered a blistering roundhouse kick that sent the Penguin skidding backward. Satisfied, the Dark Knight turned to Robin, and offered a helping hand. 

"Gordon?" the boy choked out. 

Batman inclined his head. "I picked him up around the fifth story." 

"Thanks." Robin struggled to his feet. "So how did you---?" 

"The signal," Batman returned. "Not the most original method of contacting me." 

"Works for me." They both stopped short. "Where's Penguin?" 

Batman twisted in a rapid circle, taking in the panorama of lights. "Gone," he muttered. "Damn it!" His shoulders sagged. "It never ends, does it?" 

Robin shrugged. "Hey, if it did, we'd have nothing to do, right? Right?" 

Batman almost smiled. But he caught himself. "Let's go home, chum." 

"Chum?" Robin queried. "How about partner, or friend? Or Sparky even!" 

"Get in the car." 

END 


End file.
